


silver tongue

by ohhotlamb



Series: he could become my little problem [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Office, But only a tiny bit, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Office Sex, This is ridiculous, and a 2 second blowjob, theyre all dweebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:45:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7128887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my,” Tooru breathes weakly, staring straight ahead, his entire body tingling. Beside him, Kuroo gives a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment.</p><p>“So you’ve said. Four times.”</p><p>
  <em>“Oh my.”</em>
</p><p>“Five times.”</p><p>“Kuroo.” Tooru closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “It’s not just me, is it? He’s really as hot as I think he is?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	silver tongue

**Author's Note:**

> aka my contribution to the ‘we take the same elevator every day and due to a misunderstanding i assumed you didn’t speak english and i’ve been talking to my friend about how hot you are for three weeks and apparently my friend has known from the start but you agreed not to tell me bc you both think its hilarious what the fuck’ au
> 
> Okay honestly there’s only sinful shit at the end but the rest is very (mostly) pure so if it tickles your fancy you can stop reading when iwa says “to get into my pants” (lmao) and start again at “iwaizumi is the first to break it” cause all the really nasty stuff is over by then.

Oikawa Tooru’s Day of Ultimate Woe, to most people, probably didn’t seem like it was actually all that terrible.

Firstly, his hair looked perfect, as per usual, and he had garnered a grand total of twelve ( _twelve)_ double-takes on the train that morning. Secondly, not only was he  _ahead_ of his workload, but he was ninety-four percent sure he was ahead of Tobio, and he could  _not_ wait to rub it in his face when they _accidentally_ ran into each other in front of the coffee machine later. He  _lived and breathed_ for that moment when the flame of indignant competition flared up in those steely eyes—oh, it was delicious. It was bound to be disgustingly satisfying. 

And last but not least, the third reason it didn’t seem so bad but actually  _was_  could all be boiled down to a single moment in the elevator on his way up to his office that morning.

“What floor?” he had asked, Kuroo at his side and completely oblivious to the world as he tapped mindlessly at his phone, either talking to Kenma or feeding his virtual cats. Probably a bit of both. 

The only other person aboard with them, a stranger, had been speaking into an earpiece, resolutely glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. He had been speaking in English—or, at least what Tooru  _suspected_ was English. The words that were spoken were too complicated for him to have ever learned in school—too quick, too fluent—and the stream hadn’t even paused at Tooru’s question.

“Excuse me? Floor?” he repeated impatiently, fingers poised over the panel of glowing buttons—here he was, being a nice civilian, and he was being  _ignored_ in return? Unforgivable. Tooru wasn't used to being brushed off so blatantly,  _especially_ when he was doing something out of the goodness of his pure heart. This man—this uncultured, rude, undignified piece of pond scum was so lucky as to be sharing the same air as Oikawa Tooru (world’s-best Department Supervisor and self-proclaimed Gift from God™) and he acted like the repeated questions were no more important than a bothersome fly. Tooru cleared his throat (loudly, obnoxiously), his glare harsh enough to melt sand into glass.  

At last, the stranger’s flow of words hitched. But instead of replying, he returned the glare ten-fold with an intensity that had the hair on the back of Tooru's neck stand on end. At this point, Tooru had very briefly considered throwing Kuroo in-between himself and this beast that looked to be one wrong move from biting his head off—it was a sacrifice he had been willing to make. But the man seemed to be satisfied with making his point, for after a solid moment of his eyes promising certain death, he returned full tilt into his conversation, acting like nothing had happened between them at all.

And then Tooru had finally understood, belatedly coming to the realization that this man couldn’t understand a word that Tooru had spoken to him.  

_He can’t speak Japanese._

It was most likely the pure  _unattainability_ of this person that did the trick. Suddenly, like a magic spell had been cast upon the elevator, the stranger shot straight from  _decent_ to  _hot damn_ in the span of time it took Tooru’s heart to be  _dead-set_ on thoroughly categorizing every freckle on this man’s entire body. 

That had been exactly thirty seconds ago. And he’s still no more clear-headed in the present moment.

“Oh my,” Tooru breathes weakly, staring straight ahead, his entire body tingling. Beside him, Kuroo gives a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment.

“So you’ve said. Four times.”

“ _Oh my.”_

“Five times.”

“Kuroo.” Tooru closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “It’s not just me, is it? He’s really as hot as I think he is?”

“Well, if you’re into that porcupine-look, then yes. He’s easy on the eyes.”

“ _Easy on the eyes,”_ Tooru repeats scathingly. “I’m serious here, Kuroo. Isn’t he  _scrumptious?_  He’s taunting me. It’s inhumane, that’s what it is. Don’t you think so? But yet we are forever kept apart, by something so  _insignificant._ Right?  _Kuroo?_ Don’t you see the tragedy in it all?"

Kuroo doesn’t look up from his phone, tapping out a message with sure fingers. He nods, his black fringe flopping against his cheekbone. “Oh, yes, absolutely. It’s completely terrible. I one-hundred percent agree with you. A tragedy.”

Tooru sniffs, turns away to look at the glowing golden numbers as the elevator climbs higher and higher up the building. He drums his fingers against his crossed forearm testily. “You don’t  _look_  like you think it’s sad.”

“Don’t worry, I’m crying on the inside. Trust me.”

“I say that if you’re going to work for a Japanese company, then it’s  _required_ for you to at least know the language! Doesn’t that make sense?”

“Mmm.”

“How is he going to be an upstanding member of this society if he can’t even communicate with people as important as  _me?”_

“I guess we’ll never know.”

Tooru finishes fixing his hair in the gleaming chrome of the elevator doors, turning to pout at Kuroo with his inescapable poor-orphan-in-the-rain look. “It’s fine. I guess in thirty years, when I’m drowning in the cumulative waste of my sixty cats and  _all alone,_ I can just tell them stories of how my so-called  _best friend_ just stood there playing online Scrabble with his boyfriend while I  _suffered._ ”

“So we’re planning on sixty, eh?”

“The one that got away!” Tooru cries, choking on a melodramatic sob and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Kuroo’s shoulder.

“Can’t be the one that got away if he was never yours,” Kuroo mutters, shaking him off. He sighs. “Just say hi or something—nobody’s stopping you. Even if he doesn’t speak Japanese, he’ll probably be able to understand that much at least.”

Tooru sneaks another glance over his shoulder at the man in question:  _how_ did he ever think he was anything other than divine? He looks like someone that could believably wrestle bears and meditate under waterfalls in his spare time. Climb mountains with his bare hands and chop lumber, shirtless, under the scorching sun in the middle of the woods. He’s broad and sturdy, with achingly dark eyes and the  _fucking thickest thighs Tooru’s ever seen, God help him._ He also happens to be completely oblivious to their conversation, which is a relief as much as it is a disappointment. Instead, he stares ahead at the metal doors, straight-faced and straight-backed and altogether looking like he could carry Tooru around on his shoulder without breaking a sweat. Which is excruciatingly unfair, to say the least.

Tooru has to stifle a whimper when the man finally moves; he reaches forward, belatedly pressing the button for the forty-third floor, three above Tooru’s. Tooru desperately tries to remember which department that floor’s a part of, tries to remember if he's seen his face somewhere before now. But just  _looking_ at him causes the back of his neck to feel all hot and clammy—he can’t imagine the blood flow that would happen to his poor face if he were to attempt  _communication._ He tells Kuroo as much. 

“I can’t say  _hi_. The temptation to corrupt him would too strong. His voice is orgasmic.”  _That,_ he knew for sure—while he hadn’t been able to understand a lick of what the man had been speaking into the phone earlier, he knew that he would be using that deep voice as spank-bank material for the next decade.

Kuroo purses his lips thoughtfully, before his eyes light up. “Orgasmic? Or  _ear-_ gasmic? Ha ha, I gotta write that down…” He hastily opens up a new memo screen on his phone, muttering under his breath, “Bo’s gonna be  _pissed_ …”

Tooru firmly tugs Kuroo’s ear, eyes narrowed. “Now’s not the time for trying to be funny. The world is in the middle of a  _crisis_ and you need to do your part to bring back balance!”

Kuroo rolls his eyes, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “What, this ‘crisis’ being that for the first time ever, Oikawa Tooru’s flirting skills are left completely useless? Whoop-di-fuckin’-doo.”

“There’s a long list of people in line waiting in line to be my best friend, you know. I can always replace you with one of them.  _They’d_ appreciate the injustice of this situation.”

Kuroo bows mockingly at the waist, pressing a hand to his chest. “By your leave, my liege. I insist that doth do whatever thy deems necessary.”

Tooru points a quaking finger at him, his lip curled nastily. “Just you wait, you non-believer! I’ll get into his pants if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Did you try to sound like a Scooby-Doo villain just now, or was that just a happy coincidence?”

The bell dings, signaling that they’ve reached their floor, and Tooru backs out of the threshold just to be able to catch a final glimpse of the handsome stranger before they part ways. Kuroo’s not quite so sentimental, leaving for his office without looking behind him, but Tooru can’t help but let his eyes linger. Just a little selfishly he lets his gaze marvel at the  _beautiful_ cut of the plain black suit that would look boring on anyone else, but this man manages to make positively  _sinful._  Just as the doors begin sliding shut again, the man’s eyes flicker up to meet Tooru’s, and—

And Tooru doesn’t really know what happens after that. He knows that he blacks out for half a second, his stomach spewing butterflies like a confetti canon, followed in short succession by becoming the victim of the most sudden and dizzying unwanted boner of his life. Other than that, the stumbling retreat to the safety of his office is a blur. It’s fifteen minutes later when he’s plopped down in his chair, still staring down at his traitorous crotch, that he wonders at the strange sort of horrible magic this man possesses.

 

  

* * *

 

  

“Hey, I got some errands to run so I’m not gonna be able to eat with you guys today.”

Tooru looks up from his hushed conversation with Sugawara  _(“No, Tooru, I don’t think it’s possible for most people to learn Japanese in under 24 hours.”)_  to be met with Kuroo pointing double finger-guns from the door frame. He pulls down his thumbs on the imaginary hammers. “ _Pew, pew_ ,” he says, looking way too smug to simply be “running errands”. Tooru narrows his eyes. 

“Can I come?” Bokuto pipes up.

“No.”

At his immediate downtrodden expression, Kuroo adds: “I just saw Akaashi in the copy room. It looks like he’s gonna be stuck there awhile. Run, my young and foolish friend. Go and put all that hair gel and testosterone to good use.”

Bokuto’s stuffing the last of his salad in his mouth and leaves are still poking out between his lips by the time he’s out the door and high-tailing it down the hall. “Ah, youth,” Kuroo murmurs fondly. He shakes his head, turning back to them. “Anyways, I’ll be back by the regular time. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Now, isn’t this suspicious,” Tooru drawls, smiling and propping his chin in his fist. “You're giving up the opportunity to stuff your face with Suga-chan's world-famous cupcakes to go mysteriously canoodle about the office? Didn't you say just the other day that you'd trade your first born child for the recipe?" 

“What can I say? I’m a man of many surprises.” Kuroo shrugs, though he does give the plate of cupcakes a pained, longing glance—Suga's one and only baking rule was that no one was allowed to eat what he made if they didn't provide company in turn. But Kuroo leaves without another word regardless, leaving the remainder of the lunch break for Tooru to lean his head against Suga’s shoulder and bemoan the joke that is his life. Suga only listens with half an ear, humming every now and then as he eats his sandwich. Daichi comes by to join them, and that’s when Tooru becomes really and truly ignored. He has to settle for glaring down at his cafeteria soup and stabbing viciously at chunks of floating vegetables.

It’s half an hour later when he’s back in his office, scowling at his laptop and contemplating the dubious ethics of hacking the employee database that his door is flung open without preamble. He instantly glowers, looking up and ready to verbally rip into Kuroo because  _really_ , who else is uncivilized enough to barge in without so much as a knock?

“His name’s Iwaizumi Hajime,” Kuroo declares immediately, looking way too proud of himself. Tooru blinks at him dully, his mouth closing with a  _snap._

“Huh?”

“The man of your dreams. The bona fide hottie who looks like a pinecone with frown lines. That’s his name.”

Now  _that_ catches his attention—Tooru leans forward, all irritation vanished. “ _What?”_

“What I’m saying is that you should be kissin’ your best friend’s ass ‘cause I  _delivered._ I got the deets. The downlow. I got it all.”

“Kuroo, I’m begging you. Please stop.”

“Okay, well, I might be exaggerating a little. But that’s his name. Iwaizumi. And he works in the office of International Affairs, which explains the language problem. Besides that, all I got was that he’s twenty-four and he started working here three weeks ago.”

Tooru gapes. “How, Kuroo, how? What black magic did you perform for this information?”

“Again: man of mystery and many talents. Now, I don’t expect much in the way of payment. All I ask is that you let me in on whatever master plan you come up with to woo him. One, because it’s entertaining and hilarious. And two, because I don’t think you can do it without me. But mostly because it’s been boring as shit around here lately.”

“I’m touched. Truly.”

“Thought so. Anyways, my point is—Iwaizumi works here on a daily basis, so it should be pretty easy to track him down. I’d bet my pants that that he gets here at the same time every morning, with how pissy-slash-uptight he looks.”

“What did I tell you about trying to be funny?”

“My vote is that we time our arrival just like this morning and ambush him in the elevator. I’ll be there, of course, for moral support—and so I can watch you try to charm the socks off someone who can’t understand a word of what you’re saying. Should be a riot.”

“Kuroo, your unconditional support means the world to me.”

Kuroo grins, giving Tooru a double-thumbs up. “That’s what I’m here for.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

No one can ever say that Oikawa Tooru isn’t a trier. He tries. Very hard. At everything he does. Whether it’s his work or his Latin-dance fitness classes on Friday nights or getting that perfect ratio of peanut butter to jelly on the toast he eats most mornings. Depending on the eye of the beholder, his obsession with perfection can either be seen as obnoxious or admirable—unfortunately, in the case of his love life and a very stubborn individual, it was starting to veer dangerously into the unsavory realm of _obnoxious_.

But he just can’t _help it._ He’s not _trying_ to be annoying—he’s being very polite and courteous, only dropping in little ‘hellos’ and ‘good mornings’, none of that _master plan_ garbage Kuroo was blathering about. Just little things that will help him worm his way in, little things that feed the monster that gives his heart a threatening squeeze every time their eyes meet. And okay, yes, there might have also been a very slight (and, in hindsight, rather creepy) slip in judgement in taking the trip up to the forty-third floor with a very confused but willing to help Kindaichi—he had acted as a sentry as Tooru had flirted with the department secretary in a little harmless hunt for exploitable weaknesses. But besides that fruitless attempt, he’s been good! He’s been charming! He bought new cuff-links! He’s been oozing amiability _and_ sex appeal! He’s got it all!

But even Tooru eventually has to come to a breaking point. He wants to tell himself that it’s only a matter of time, but even the most optimistic part of himself is starting to dive into a downward spiral—they share the elevator ride up most mornings, Kuroo at his side, and they’ve made no tangible progress during the past three weeks.

He’s beginning to suffer.

“I’m reaching the end of my rope here, Kuroo. I’m losing my mind.”

Not everyone shares his morose feelings on the topic.

“Try again! Fuckin’—please, c’mon, t-try some m...more—” Kuroo’s wheezing, eyes brimming with joyous tears, hands braced against the steel wall for support. The several other elevator passengers aboard with them avert their gaze like eye contact with him would be unpalatable. Likewise, Iwaizumi hadn’t even glanced their direction when Tooru had said good morning seconds prior, and that had been all it took for Kuroo to lose hold of his flimsy semblance of composure.

“I’m so glad that my untimely death is so entertaining for you. Here’s a memento to remember me by.” Tooru presents his middle finger with a flourish, and a woman standing behind him stifles a gasp. He contritely drops his hand. 

Kuroo grins, leaning in and dropping his voice to a sickening whisper. “Oh, naughty, naughty. Bad boys don’t get to do nasty things with the hot foreign man.”

“You are insufferable,” Tooru informs him, tilting his head to look at Iwaizumi from the corner of his eyes—he appears to be glowering at the floor, eyebrows furrowed to an extreme. Tooru clears his throat, inching the littlest bit closer so he doesn't have to shout across the carriage. 

“It’s Iwaizumi-kun, right? Iwaizumi Hajime?”

His shoulders twitch and he turns to stare at Tooru oddly, his face twisted into a strange combination of pained constipation and disbelief. But he nods, albeit curtly, and he turns his eyes away again. Tooru breathes out a sigh of relief; he seems to have understood that much, at least. He decides to try his luck even further.

“Do you like working here? Where are you from?”

That just garners him an unimpressed look that still manages to make Tooru’s belly squirm like it’s writhing with snakes. He smiles through the pain, his head bobbing. “Ah, that’s fine, that’s fine. Not a problem.” Beside him, Kuroo is still quietly shaking with silent laughter. Tooru elbows him in the ribs, and he wheezes.

“Kuroo, he’s like the hottest person I’ve ever seen. All men have now been ruined for me, forever. For the last time, this is not a laughing matter.” Kuroo’s wheeze turns into a choked snort, and he stares past Tooru at Iwaizumi with unrestrained delight.

“Is that so? Oh, please, tell me _everything_. What are you actually after here?” He smirks over at the person in question, who appears to be making a somewhat agonized expression at the ground. “He doesn’t seem very friendly. Or to like you very much.”  

“I don’t know,” Tooru purses his lips, thoughtful. “Well, it’s obvious that I’m after the horizontal tango. That’s non-negotiable.”

Kuroo chokes on his spit again and Tooru sighs, closing his eyes. “But I definitely want to get to know him better, too. We could be  _soulmates,_ Kuroo. That would explain the spark! And that frightfully unwanted boner.”

“Okay, I expect details on the boner later, but the spark?” Kuroo echoes, mystified.

“Mmhmm. You know, like—oh, how can I put this in a way you’d understand, emotionally twisted that you are?” Tooru frowns, deep in thought. “I guess it’s kind of like that feeling you get when you see someone trip walking up the stairs.”

“Ah. I get it now,” Kuroo nods in understanding, snapping his fingers together. “The warm fuzzies, eh?”  

Tooru claps. “Yes, exactly! Just looking at him makes me wish I could have his biological children. And maybe cuddle.”

“I do enjoy boners and cuddling. I don’t know what to tell you about the biological kid thing, though.”

“A problem for another day. But you get it, right? I just want to get to know him, but I  _can’t,_ no matter how hard I try. Because everything I say is just gibberish to him.”

“Hmm.” Kuroo nods slowly, his eyes lighting up and a dangerous smile slowly stretching across his face just as they reach their floor. He drags Tooru out of the elevator, ducking their heads close together to whisper.  “You know what this  _means_ , right?” he grins, and Tooru does  _not_ like his gut feeling that whatever he’s about to say is going to make him wish he had transferred companies when he had the chance. “We need to up our game.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Operation Codename: _'Scooby-Doo’_  is in effect by the very next day. Tooru’s planted in the front lobby of their office building, leaning with precise indifference against the front counter manned by the fleet of general secretaries. Shoving his sunglasses a little further up the bridge of his nose, he raises his phone to his ear, trying for nonchalant. (This, of course, is made ineffective by the fact that he’s wearing sunglasses indoors).

“Shaggy, I repeat: Shaggy. Are you in position?”

There’s a dull roar echoed in his ears, a barely-understandable tidal wave of words tumbling over themselves and Tooru forces himself to stifle a sigh. “Tell Scooby to calm down and that if he doesn’t chill out I’m kicking him off the operation. I repeat: Are you in position?”

There’s the brief sound of a scuffle, a dull thump followed by a curse and a wail. “ _Bokuto, you have your own phone,_ ** _let go_** _—oh, uh, Shaggy is in position, sir.”_ A beat of unintelligible whispering, then:  _“And Scooby says that he’s gonna do whatever the fuck he wants to do, sorry. Over.”_

He’s unable to hold back his sigh this time. “Whatever. Do we have visual on the target?” Tooru’s eyes, concealed by his shades, dart quickly all over the foyer. There’s a lot of boring business men and custodians, flashy CEOs and the lone visitor, looking intimidated by the building’s size and regality. Nothing worth getting himself worked up over, yet.

 _“Can’t say we do.”_ Kuroo confirms his suspicions.

 “Fine. Just keep your eyes peeled.”

“ _Roger that. Also, I’m adding Bokuto to the conference call. Fair warning.”_

 “Wait, don’t—"

“ _Captain, I have an idea!”_

Tooru groans, rubbing his long fingers against his temple. “For the last time, Bokuto, sometimes simple is the best way to go about these things—"

“ _Ugh, but it’s so_ ** _boring!_**   _What’s so special about trapping him in the elevator alone with you? He’s not gonna remember you that way! There needs to be something…something_ ** _exciting_** ,  _so that he’ll never forget your face for as long as he lives!”_

The idea, as Tooru's subordinates well know, is to maximize the potential of a romantic situation, thus helping the petals of love to blossom naturally. Just the two of them, the soothing sound of Muzak and the whir of the elevator machinery. With no one there to blatantly laugh at him or make Iwaizumi feel self-conscious, it will be easier to start a conversation, in any way they can manage. Tooru's not after some grand finale; all he wants is this first step. 

He looks up, eyes tracing the glittering crystals of a high-up chandelier. “I appreciate the thought, really. But I’m not  _that_ desperate, and this plan will work just fine. All you have to do is make sure that no one else follows us on, and then—" Tooru’s cut off suddenly by Kuroo’s shout in his ear, and his heart leaps into his throat.

 _“He’s here! Captain, I repeat:_ **_he’s here!_ ** _”_

Tooru tenses, trying not to diverge from his relaxed posture and give himself away as anything but suave. He looks around frantically, his palms beginning to sweat.

“ _Where?_  Where is he?”

“ _Off the starboard bow! 2 o’clock sharp!”_

“Kuroo, now is  _not_ the time for—!”

“ _The doors, you idiot! He’s just gone through the front doors! Target is heading towards the elevators! Move, captain, move! Scooby and I will hold off any interlopers!"_

Tooru finally has visual—Iwaizumi, completely unaware and looking vaguely irritated, is making his way through the mingling business-people to the left-most set of elevators. Right on time. Tooru takes a deep, calming breath, shaking out his hands to get some blood flowing back into his cold fingers. He can hear Kuroo, his real voice, shouting something indistinguishable from closer to the front of the building. Frowning, Tooru presses his phone back to his ear.

“ _Ah, shit,_ _no, Bokuto, **get back here** —Captain, Bo’s going in for the kill! Insubordination! Rogue soldier! I repe—_"

Tooru rips his phone away in horror, watching as Bokuto streaks across the main atrium, a black and white blur, his tongue sticking out in concentration and eyes narrowed with glee as he clearly deviates from their carefully crafted plan. He’s expertly dodging innocent bystanders, his gaze laser-focused, and in his hands…

Tooru’s eyes widen impossibly further. Oh, god. No. Please, no.  _Please._

But Bokuto is deaf to his friend’s inner cries as he scurries full-tilt towards the utter destruction of life as Tooru know it. A very small graces comes with him slowing down just enough to not fully tackle Iwaizumi to the ground—unfortunately, this act of consideration is made moot by how he purposefully checks Iwaizumi with a powerful shoulder, enough to make them both stumble and for Bokuto to effectively spill the entire cup of black coffee all over the crisply-pressed white of Iwaizumi’s button-down.

When Bokuto looks up at Tooru proudly, eager and grinning like he’s expecting some sort of treat or ear-scratch, Tooru has already drafted Bokuto’s eulogy. It goes something along the lines of:  _Bokuto Koutarou was the worst friend I ever had. He won’t be missed. Thank you and take care on your way home._ He tries to convey this with the blackest glare he can manage, and Bokuto doesn’t even falter—instead, his grin widens, and he untucks something from the back of his pants. He hurls the object through the air in the direction of the reception desks, and Tooru’s flawless reflexes refuse to allow him to let it hit the ground.

Catching it easily, he looks down to find that it’s an unassuming wad of white fabric. When he further unrolls it, he discovers a clean white dress shirt, very slightly wrinkled and warmed from the heat of Bokuto’s body. It’s definitely his—wide, especially across the chest and arms, smelling of the laundry detergent he's been using since high school. It certainly looks like it would be an acceptable fit for Iwaizumi; at least, more than any of Tooru’s extra shirts would be—

The connection is made with a wave of realization followed by the violent grinding of teeth—it appears that Bokuto’s betrayal was premeditated. Oh, how Tooru will make the retribution swift and painful.

Iwaizumi still hasn’t uttered a word. He’s staring down at himself in shock, eyes wide, and only as Bokuto scampers away without even an apology does he look up. He follows Bokuto’s retreat with a look in his eyes that makes Tooru suddenly glad he had started putting some thought into his friend’s untimely demise and subsequent funeral. There’s a dark brown stain seeped through the clean white, a jarring splash of ugly color that sticks to the skin underneath. Droplets are still tumbling from his belt, from the waist of his pants, and some even trickle down his legs to either catch on his shoes or puddle on the floor. He’s observing all of this with a calm that is, quite frankly, terrifying, and Tooru is slightly relieved that Bokuto made such a hasty retreat, because for all he says he really doesn’t want to be indirectly the cause of one of his best friends’ deaths.

He spots his partners in crime at the far corner of the room, half-hidden behind a marble pillar, Kuroo viciously wrapping Bokuto into a headlock and shouting indecipherable curses into his ear. But in-between sucking his index finger into his mouth and delivering what will undoubtedly be one hell of a wet-willy to a squirming Bokuto, he takes the time to look up and pierce Tooru with his gaze, his meaning clear.  _Don’t let this fool’s sacrifice be in vain._

So Tooru blinks himself from his stupor, slips his sunglasses from his nose, and turns on the charm. _For you, Bokuto. Rest in pieces._

“Oh my goodness, this is terrible!” Tooru croons, Iwaizumi glancing up at his approach. His eyes narrow and he takes a step away, as if he’s afraid Tooru has come to even further ruin his work attire. Tooru lowers his voice, letting it drop into something smooth and silky and, hopefully, non-threatening. “You must be so uncomfortable! It just so happens that I have an extra shirt—“ he offers the garment as proof, hoping that even if his words aren’t understood, his meaning will be— “and you are more than welcome to use it. Does that sound okay?”

Again, he’s just met with that blank, impassive stare; one thick eyebrow arched in clear suspicion, and— _wow, that’s a lot hotter than it should be._ Tooru tugs on Iwaizumi’s wrist, gently herding him away from the stares of the mingling crowd and speaking to him like he would to a lost child. “Here, here, follow me—it’s okay, it’s okay. There’s a private bathroom in my office, I absolutely insist you use it! I—oh, why do I even bother. You can’t understand a word I’m saying, can you?” he heaves out a sigh, but continues smiling as he steers Iwaizumi towards the elevator, noticing with a faint pleasure that not once does he try to pull away.

  

 

* * *

 

 

Tooru’s private bathroom is a simple thing. It’s designed for a single person’s use, meaning that it’s extremely tiny and barely has enough room for someone to comfortably turn around in, let alone two people. So he has Iwaizumi stand in front of the toilet, Tooru awkwardly standing between him and the doorway as he leans over to a wet a hand towel in the small sink. He begins dabbing at the stain gently, the man’s eyes narrowed as he watches Tooru work.

“Must be tough not being able to speak the language of the country you’re in,” Tooru muses. “And you aren’t able to speak  _any_ Japanese, right?” No response. “Ah, I guess not. That’s fine too, I’ll just live my life alone and beautiful like I planned. No big deal.”

Iwaizumi begins shrugging out of his suit jacket to make the dirty shirt underneath more accessible, and he lets it hang at his side. Tooru notices that his identification pass is still clipped to the lapels, a laminated rectangle of paper bearing his name and picture. Tooru studies it absently, noting that Iwaizumi’s not smiling in his picture but still managing to look all glow-y and generally unattainable.

“Iwaizumi Hajime, huh?” Tooru reads, his hands stilling and just letting the soaked cloth rest against Iwaizumi’s firm chest. Iwaizumi looks back at him dully, his expression bordering on impatient, and Tooru shakes his head. He leans over to wet the towel again under cool water, turning back to pat at the splotch again gently. It looks like he’s done the most he can do—maybe the rest of the mark will come out in the wash. If not, he can always extort Bokuto for money to buy a new one.

He sets the towel down in the sink basin, gestures for Iwaizumi to begin unbuttoning the soiled shirt. He does, and Tooru looks away, because he’s sure that getting an eyeful from this close would be unhealthy for his heart. “It’s weird. Your name sure  _sounds_ Japanese, but I guess you can’t always assume.”

Not even a peep in reply.

Tooru un-bunches Bokuto’s shirt, flattening it against the wall to smooth out any wrinkles he might have caused during the trip up here. “Anyways, Iwa-chan, I have this—“

“Don’t call me that.”

“Huh? Why no—“

And it’s this precise moment that Tooru literally feels his soul leave his body. He’s watching himself, as if from above, as his whole body becomes rigid, the breath visibly catching in his throat, his next words bursting to flames and leaving his mouth bone dry. If Kuroo were here, he’d tell Tooru not to head into the light. Bokuto would helpfully offer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. As it is, he’s forced to yank his life-force back into his own body to avoid completely dissolving from the face of the earth.

He turns, meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes, knowing his own are impossibly wide and slightly hysterical. Iwaizumi’s looking back evenly, the corners of his mouth curled up in a minuscule smile that just  _screams_ smugness, his eyes twinkling with something like amusement. All the blood has left Tooru’s face, rendering him ashen and pale. He tries to wet his lips, failing with his dry tongue. He’s blinking so rapidly it’s developed into a nervous twitch. He had to have heard wrong—he  _had_ to. Maybe Iwaizumi had experienced an unfortunate series of consecutive coughs and the sound had just  _happened_ to sound like a string of words in Tooru’s native language. _Please._

“E-excuse me?”

Tooru watches in horror as Iwaizumi’s lips move to form syllables that he can  _very much understand._ “That stupid fuckin’ nickname—I hate it. Don’t call me that.”

The world around him is whirling, a distant ringing in his ears, and Tooru vaguely wonders if this is what dying feels like. He thinks he might actually see the beginnings of a dark tunnel with a light at the end. “I…you. But. I thought—"

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “This is an _international company_ , dipshit, and I’m working in the office of International Affairs. Obviously I’m gonna be able to speak English. But I was born and raised in Miyagi.”

“So you can speak Japanese. Fluently.” The truth is staring him right in the face, but the fierce blush that’s now flooding his cheeks is making him feel so feverish that he can’t think straight. His knees are weak enough that he thinks they’re about two seconds from giving out completely.

“Acute observation, Sherlock. You want a gold star?”

“So. Um. You…”

Iwaizumi’s laughing now, the sadist. He’s biting his lip, eyes sparkling and under any other circumstances Tooru would find it adorable. “So I know you think I’m  _scrumptious_ and that you think we’re soulmates. Among other things.”

There it is. That’s it. The finishing blow—Tooru knows he’s red as a tomato, cheeks flaming painfully like a habanero pepper, and he slumps against the wall, pressing his hands against his forehead. “Oh…oh my god.  _Oh my god.”_

Iwaizumi laughs out loud this time, and Tooru’s fists bunch even as he hides his face. Why hasn’t the ground swallowed him up yet? Is he even still breathing? “But, but you didn’t—! You  _never said—!_ Oh my god. What did I ever do to deserve this? I’m a nice person! I’m nicer than Kuroo, at least! What did I do to deserve such divine retribution?!”

He’s still laughing this terribly charming chuckle, and Tooru drops his hands, scowling. “ _You!”_ he says, pointing an accusing finger, “ _Are a mean person!”_

Iwaizumi smiles, shrugging. “Okay.”

“Really! You’re awful! And to think I wanted to bear your children!”

“I really don’t know how to respond to that.”

“We! Whatever  _this_ is—is over! You hear me? Done!”

Iwaizumi smirks, unfastening the last button of his ruined shirt. “Aw, well isn’t that just too bad? And I was so looking forward to spending the rest of our lives together.”

Tooru growls, stomping his foot, and Iwaizumi raises his eyebrow again. “Did you seriously just stomp your foot at me?”

They’re interrupted by Tooru’s office door opening, again without a knock, and Kuroo pokes his head in, grinning widely. “Do mine ears deceive me? Is this a lovers’ quarrel?”

Tooru whirls around, feeling very nearly close to tears with embarrassment. “Kuroo, you won’t  _believe_ this! This entire time, we have been  _lied to!”_

“Whoa, dude. Are you aware that your face is, like, purple?”

Iwaizumi leans out of the bathroom, his hand raised in greeting. “Mornin’, Kuroo.”

Kuroo waves back before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yo, Iwaizumi! I see you got into a bit of an accident, there.”

“Ah, yeah. Some guy spilled his shit all over me.”

Kuroo clucks his tongue, still grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “That sucks, bro. Hey, we can eat lunch together again today, if you want?”

“Sure.”

“Cool, I’ll meet you on your floor! Oh, Oikawa. Maybe you should think about joining us,” Kuroo says, winking, before ducking quickly back outside.

Tooru mentally corrects his image of Bokuto’s funeral to become a double-casket affair. He grinds his teeth together, vein in his temple pulsing, and wonders if the cleaning staff love him enough to remove blood stains from his office carpet. Because Kuroo knew.  _He had known._ Tooru’s willing to wager that he knew for most, if not  _all_ of the times he allowed Tooru to rant about increasingly embarrassing topics in front of someone he  _knew_ could understand every word _._  He must have found out when he went to dig up information that first day.  _You are a dead man, Kuroo Tetsurou. Say your prayers._

His eyes shift from the door as Iwaizumi begins stripping off his soiled shirt and Tooru wordlessly offers him the clean one. He accepts it with a grunt, having finally gotten a hold on his laughter, and he slips his ( _amazing, absolutely phenomenal)_ arms through the sleeves. He doesn’t button it right away, leaving the middle open, and Tooru might be unable to rip his eyes away from the contours of his perfect abdominal muscles. He feels something tap against the bottom of his chin, and he glances up quickly to find Iwaizumi looking at him levelly, two fingers too close to his pulse point for comfort.

“My eyes are up here.”

Tooru grimaces. “How horribly cliché, Iwa-chan. This isn’t a movie, you know. You can’t say stuff like that in real life.”

Iwaizumi’s hand drops. “Oh, really? I can’t?” He smirks, head cocked to the side. “But you know what I think?” He leans closer, and Tooru swallows dryly, “I think that I could say anything I wanted, and you’d like it. Since my voice is so…what was the word?  _Orgasmic?”_

Tooru’s exhale is so breathy it sounds like a gasp.  _“How unfair.”_

“You know what else is unfair? When you eye-fuck me like that and don’t expect me to call you out on it.”

The air leaves Tooru’s lungs at once, his stomach clenching. “I wasn’t…”

“Are you really trying to deny it?”

“Well, no. But I wasn’t trying hide it, either. Honest.”

“Really.”

Tooru stares at him. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” He’s unable to stop a little whine from slipping in, because  _really,_  he’s going to have to live with this utter humiliation for the rest of his natural-born life. The least Iwaizumi could do is be at least a  _tiny bit_ remorseful.

But he just smiles, a little evil and lopsided and the confetti canon goes off in Tooru’s stomach again. “Because it’s been so much fun watching you squirm around like this.”

Tooru puffs out his cheeks, irritated. “That’s—!"

“Unfair? You seem to like that word.” His eyes are smoldering, he smells like coffee and something earthy and Tooru can feel his body heat. It’s warm, warm,  _warm_. He feels dizzy, completely uncool and completely unlike himself, like he conveniently lost every flirtatious bone in his body because all he can do is stare as Iwaizumi presses his thumb into the plush of Tooru’s lower lip.

“I guess it’s…not a bad word…” he mumbles, entranced and barely breathing, his heart kicking up something fierce in his chest as he watches the slow slide of Iwaizumi’s dark eyes down to his mouth. Tooru’s fingers, nervous and aching to touch reach forward hesitantly, the tips brushing against Iwaizumi’s bare stomach. The hard muscles there twitch, and Iwaizumi’s eyelids lower a fraction.

“Looks like you got what you wanted, regardless,” Iwaizumi whispers, chin tilting up—without realizing how he got there, Tooru realizes that Iwaizumi’s face is  _so close,_ close enough to see the individual flecks of lighter sepia in his irises.

“What did I want, again?” His head is cotton candy, his thoughts swirling uselessly around each other like wisps of smoke, each too flimsy and transparent to grab onto.

“To get into my pants.”

“Oh.” A pause. He lets that sink in for a moment before his eyes widen. But by then Iwaizumi’s already kissing him, hand at his side, gentle and coaxing. And just like that, Tooru’s jelly, immediately pliant and immediately receptive. He lets out a shivery little breath, opening his mouth. His tongue curls with Iwaizumi’s, slippery and hot, and he  _swears_ Iwaizumi lets out a growl when Tooru’s hands find his hair. It’s coarse and thick and wonderful, and Tooru pulls on it gently as he lets Iwaizumi push him back out into his office, stumbling blindly until the backs of his thighs hit his desk. It makes Iwaizumi produce another warm sound, encouraging and aggressive, and Tooru tugs again, his fingers sliding down to dig his nails into the thick muscle of Iwaizumi’s shoulders.

Iwaizumi’s lips leave his mouth to press firm kisses under his jaw, and Tooru moans low in his throat. “Iwa-chan, I’d recommend stopping now,” he manages, his breath hitching at the last second and making him sound significantly less put together. “My neck is very…sensitive.”

“Hmm,” Iwaizumi hums across the soft skin of his throat, but otherwise makes no move to stop. “This might be worse than I thought.”

“Worse?” He sounds dazed, high as a kite and not coming back down to earth anytime soon.

“Tell anyone and you die,” Iwaizumi replies mildly; that’s the only warning he gives before his nimble fingers are roughly tugging at Tooru’s zipper, his intentions clear as day.

Tooru gasps, his hands closing down on Iwaizumi’s wrists. “What are you _doing!”_

“Are you complaining? After all your big talk?” he growls back, pushing against Tooru harder, Tooru’s thighs digging into the edges of his desk. _Why?_ he means to reply, to maybe make another half-hearted attempt of reining Iwaizumi back into rationality, but then Iwaizumi  _bites_ him, right where his neck meets his shoulder, and he whimpers _._ A tongue starts unapologetically lapping over the bite, the tip swirling in circles over the individual teeth-marks. It hurts in the best possible way.

Iwaizumi pulls back with a leer. “I was supposed to start work at least five minutes ago,” he rumbles, his pupils completely dilated, and a full-on shiver rolls down Tooru’s back. “So we’re gonna have make this quick.”

“I—"

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Tooru shakes his head. “The door’s unlocked, and Kuroo doesn’t knock,” he explains breathlessly.

“You really think he’d bother us?”

“I...I don’t know, maybe—"

“Then c’mere.” It’s Iwaizumi’s turn to pull—he grabs onto Tooru’s hand to yank him closer to the windows, and Tooru doesn’t know why _that_ of all things is what makes his skin feel all tingly like a delightful case of pins and needles, especially when they had literally been making out two seconds ago. But he feels uncharacteristically shy as Iwaizumi steers him behind the desk, allowing himself to be maneuvered (honestly, at this point he’s putty) like a ragdoll. He’s gently guided to sit on the floor in front of the drawers, safely out of sight and definitely invisible from the other side of the windows.

Iwaizumi slides down to his knees then, slipping the borrowed shirt off as he goes, and he straddles Tooru’s lap, sitting back on his thighs, a heavy presence pressing them together. He straightaway makes quick work of unbuttoning Tooru’s own white shirt, pushing it loose on his shoulders and leaving his stomach bare. He twists Tooru’s tie around his neck until the long strip of fabric hangs over his right shoulder, unobtrusive. “Wouldn’t want your clothes to get dirty, too,” Iwaizumi explains lowly. He doesn’t waste time, reaching for the zipper again and Tooru doesn’t stop him—he’s watching Iwaizumi closely, his breathing already uneven, watching with a shy sort of anticipation for that moment of hungry approval, that moment when Tooru is laid bare—

The moment comes with a minute lowering of Iwaizumi’s eyelids, an unconscious wetting of his lips. His gaze is shockingly reverential, fingers pulling Tooru’s boxers down gently. Tooru himself feels overly aware of his own body—the coloring that comes with the flush of blood, the overhead lights catching the glistening that comes with arousal. But it’s the startling lack of preamble that has Tooru squeaking when Iwaizumi finally grips him in his hand. Really—it’s not like he’s _embarrassed._ It’s not like he’s never had sex anywhere more scandalous than a dark, locked bedroom. It’s not like the burning intensity Iwaizumi has now switched to his face makes him _nervous—_

“I don’t _believe_ you,” Iwaizumi says, sounding amazed. “You put on this big horndog show but you’re acting like you’ve never been touched before. Are you a virgin?”

Tooru splutters indignantly. “ _Horndog—virgin—!“_

Iwaizumi pushes his tongue into Tooru’s mouth then, making the first stroke of his hand as he does, and Tooru’s words melt into a moan. He grasps desperately at Iwaizumi’s lower back, fingers digging into the hot skin, sliding a bit with the beginning sheen of sweat there. He rakes his nails, and Iwaizumi grunts. The heat of his mouth is sweet.

Iwaizumi pulls away with a loud wet noise, and Tooru mourns the loss. “You probably already know this, but you’re not so bad on the eyes either.” He’s murmuring, and his eyes focus intently on his work. Tooru watches, enraptured, as Iwaizumi again wets his lips with his tongue—he stares at the slickness left behind, and he longs to taste it as before. But the longing is eclipsed by the overwhelming feeling of that big, wide hand wrapped so completely around him, the delightful roughness of his fingers, and his head knocks back so hard into his desk drawer that he can hear the desktop monitor rattle.

“Can you save the compliments for later? I can’t fully appreciate them when you’re—" he sucks in a breath through his teeth as Iwaizumi rubs his thumb into Tooru’s slit in slow, small, wet circles. “When you’re doing that,” he finishes lamely.

“Take my cock out,” is what Iwaizumi replies with, unfaltering, lids low and eyes ravenous. Tooru does _not_ choke, he does _not,_ because he’s a grown man and _not a virgin!_ He’s cool as a cucumber, his fingers not trembling _at all_ as he reaches for Iwaizumi’s fastenings. He doesn’t whimper when he cups him, lightly, through the damp boxer briefs—he doesn’t close his eyes in disbelieving reverence when he finally holds the weight of him in his hand, achingly hard and hot to the touch. He bites his lip, making that first tug of his hand, and in response Iwaizumi’s grip tightens—

He definitely chokes that time.

Iwaizumi presses closer, guiding them together, nuzzling his nose into Tooru’s neck and breathing hard. He covers Tooru’s hand with his own, matching their strokes at the same time. Tooru feels the coarse drag of hair brush his knuckles on every downstroke, his fingers collecting wetness every time they pass over the tip—his mouth is watering with how badly he wants to shove his fingers into his mouth and taste that bitterness, with how much he wants to feel that heavy weight on his tongue. But it’s hard to ask when he has Iwaizumi groaning into his neck, his hips giving stuttering little thrusts, his free hand tangled in Tooru’s hair and pulling hard enough that tears spring to Tooru’s eyes.

“ _Iwa-chan.”_

His thighs are shaking and he can’t seem to get enough air. His hand has become slightly useless, more-or-less just getting in the way as Iwaizumi’s own wraps around the both of them, jerking them  together quickly, and he’s grinning wolfishly right next to Tooru’s ear, Tooru can  _feel_ it. That alone is bad enough, but then Iwaizumi makes it worse, makes it infinitely worse because he starts _talking,_ and the raspy, broken mess of his voice is enough to make Tooru’s cock jump.

“I’m sure this is kinda disappointing for you, isn’t it?” he’s whispering, his free hand slipping free of Tooru’s hair and trailing down, down between Tooru’s back and the desk to grab at the available muscle of his ass—Tooru moans, the end lilting up like a question. That _had_ to be rhetorical. There’s not a person alive that could mistake Tooru’s wild breathing, the full-body tremble as anything other than crippling _want_. He’s honestly almost insulted at the mere notion, and he manages to close his mouth long enough to work on forming his lips into coherent words, but Iwaizumi doesn’t give him the chance.

“I bet you were hoping I was gonna fuck you right here on your desk, right?” Oh. “Work you _open?”_ _Oh._ He punctuates this by biting Tooru’s shoulder again, hard enough to hurt (again), but Tooru can barely feel it—he’s too busy trying not to outright _wail. His_ cock throbs so hard he very nearly does, and—oh. _Oh._ He hadn’t thought—he hadn’t even _considered—_

“Oh, _fuck.”_

His eyes roll up into his head a little, his mouth dropping on a silent moan—Iwaizumi is relentless, the wetness of them together making lewd slick noises every second, and he laughs, a diabolical little chuckle that has Tooru bending forward again, has his nails raking through the sweat of a broad back; it’s him this time who curls inward, burying his nose into the dampness of Iwaizumi’s neck, moaning gutturally. He can feel the vibrations in his bones when Iwaizumi speaks.

“I’d fuck you so good, Oikawa.” He pauses the incessant motion of his hand to thumb the crown of Tooru’s cock roughly, the pads of his fingers callused.

Tooru gasps. “ _Fuck.”_

“But I guess that’s gonna have to wait for another time,” he continues, panting, his hand completely coated, slippery and delicious as he continues sliding over the both of them.

“Another time,” Tooru echoes feverishly. He’s breathing like he’s in the middle of a brutal set of sprints, drops of sweat rolling down his neck to dip below his collar. Iwaizumi flattens his tongue against Tooru’s exposed clavicle, dragging it up to his jaw, just below his ear. He smacks his lips, and the promise of tasting that salt on his own tongue is too much—Tooru grabs Iwaizumi’s hair again, yanking their mouths together. Iwaizumi growls, pleased, the tang of his mouth making Tooru feel like it’s never going to be enough, like he could keep coming and coming but it will never satisfy him—

He realizes, then, that he _is—_ that his throat is letting out a horrifically loud noise, that his cock is jerking and throwing thick white ropes over his stomach, over Iwaizumi’s—he stares, wide-eyed and delirious, at the _filthy_ contrast of the creamy white over the brown of Iwaizumi’s skin, at how Iwaizumi is watching him and being watched, at how Iwaizumi’s still fucking into his own fist, his lips wet and glistening and red from biting—

Tooru pushes him. Palms flat against his chest, he shoves Iwaizumi backwards. Hard. When his bare back hits the office carpet he grunts, the sound accompanied by a muted _thud._ Tooru is on him in an instant, mouthing immediately over the milky stripes he’s made, broad swipes of his tongue, tasting himself. He lets out a high whine, and Iwaizumi’s cock visibly jerks—he’s staring at Tooru like he’s never seen anything quite like him.

There’s not a trace of his previous embarrassment left—not a trace of shame, not in a single cell of his body. There’s something invigorating, fucking under such blatant daylight. He’s not trying to prove himself and it’s certainly not muscle memory—it’s nothing he’s felt before, a distinct wildness that makes him feel out of control of himself, like if he’s not careful he’ll swallow Iwaizumi whole. But by the looks of it, Iwaizumi wouldn’t mind being eaten alive. His eyes are completely black, full to the edges with pupil, and his chest rises and falls with a desperate rhythm.

“In my throat,” is all Tooru tells him, knows he’ll understand the second he’s swallowed around the feverish thickness, his tongue curling underneath as it goes well past his palatoglossal arch, his eyes closing to savor the fresh saltiness, nose filled with it, the warm smell of him. He noses into dark hair and he twitches between his legs again at the musk, the masculine scent that has him nearly shaking—

Iwaizumi curses. Tooru opens his eyes again, struggling to breathe through his nose. Iwaizumi curses again, quietly, neck craned up to look at Tooru. His teeth flash as he bares them in a near-grimace, the pleasure bordering on pain, and another curse is the only warning before heat is spurting down Tooru’s throat. He pulls back enough so that he can catch some on his tongue, so that he can pass it over his tastebuds, mixing it between his teeth and cheeks with saliva before he swallows with a gratified sigh.

“Jesus Christ.”

He could get used to being looked at like this. The endorphins of his release are making him feel drugged—he smiles, slow and predatory and sated (for now). He spreads his hands over Iwaizumi’s bare chest, pleased with the frantic pounding he feels pulsing against his fingertips. “Not a virgin,” he whispers, licking his lips, savoring the leftover bitterness.

“Not a virgin,” Iwaizumi agrees. He sits up with a heavy grunt, Tooru still hovering over his groin. He has to sit back on Iwaizumi’s shins so that their heads don’t collide. He adjusts to press his hands into Iwaizumi’s thighs for balance, and they stare at each other, silent, for a long moment.

Iwaizumi is the first to break it.

“Maybe now’s not the time to break the news to you about the biological kid thing.”

Tooru laughs. “Oh, my god.” His shoulders shake, and he watches through watering eyes, mesmerized, as Iwaizumi cracks a crooked grin. The laughter isn’t helping as he’s still trying to catch his breath from what they’ve just done, but he can’t keep the buoyancy from his raspy voice as he replies, delightedly, “You have a sense of humor. What else? Are you secretly a billionaire? Do you serve the homeless on your days off?”

Iwaizumi follows his lead and _laughs—_ honest-to-god _laughs,_ not an ounce of that half-assed chuckling from before. His eyes crinkle into half-moons, teeth bright under poor office fluorescents. Tooru can hear the distant _thunk_ as Cupid’s arrow shoots straight through his back into his poor overworked heart.

“It’s a little early for me to be giving up my secret identity. You’re gonna have to work for that. But,” he grins, “I guess I can give you this.”

This kiss is all softness, all sugar and no spice, gentle in a way that Tooru had only caught brief glimpses of in the past fifteen minutes. His mind suddenly goes off without him—how would it be, if they were to do what they just did, but in the early morning before breakfast? Would Iwaizumi hold his hand, for longer this time? He can still taste both of them in his mouth, but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to care, gently tilting Tooru’s head and passing his tongue over his teeth. When he pulls away Tooru is lightheaded and oxygen-deprived.

“It’s thanks for letting me use your shirt,” Iwaizumi explains, not nearly as breathless as Tooru but still looking thoroughly fucked, his spiky hair messed up even more than before, his mouth swollen and red. There’s splashes of flush across his cheeks, a faint glimmer of sweat at the hollow of his throat. Tooru can only imagine how he looks right now—he’s guessing obscene would be an understatement. 

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker down at the mess between them, and then a double-take, and he lets out a surprised little laugh. _“Damn.”_ he breathes, reaching to grab at Tooru’s hips and whistling appreciatively. “You came _a lot.”_

Tooru scrambles to cover his messy stomach, the embarrassment rushing back into him like a sneaker wave. He tucks himself back into his pants, blushing furiously. “ _Stop looking!”_

“I had your dick in my hand and you don’t want me to _look?_ Are you even old enough to be doing this?”

Tooru scowls. “I’m twenty-four! Same as you!”

“I _knew_ it. You sent Kuroo to spy on me, didn’t you?”

“He was a free agent! I had nothing to do with that! The both of them acted on their own!”

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows shoot up. “The _both_ of them?”

Tooru clamps his lips shut over his slip-up. “Uh.”

But Iwaizumi doesn’t look nearly as angry as Tooru thought he’d look. He just shakes his head, a defeated sigh leaving his lips. “That douche. The one who did _this,”_ he gestures vaguely towards his chest, “He was one of your cronies, wasn’t he?”

“ _Cronies,”_ Tooru echoes scathingly—but he doesn’t deny it, just looks away guiltily as he stands on legs that are as wobbly as a newborn deer. He helps Iwaizumi up after him, that _pitter-patter s_ tarting again the moment their palms meet.

There’s another trip to the bathroom together, Tooru again wetting the hand towel but this time it’s to clean the cum from their stomachs, to wipe at sweaty foreheads—Tooru cleans Iwaizumi’s back and chest for him, trying to control his breathing so he doesn’t get himself worked up again. Iwaizumi returns the favor, and then it’s several more rinses and passes back-and-forth before Iwaizumi is satisfied enough to shrug on the borrowed shirt, buttoning it so slowly Tooru mentally classifies it as a form of psychological warfare.

A bit of cum had made its way onto his own shirt regardless of Iwaizumi’s precaution, but it dries and blends in well enough with the white fabric, even if it’s awkwardly stiff. He tucks it back into his slacks, smoothing it out the best he can and trying to ignore how the back is still damp from sweat. Having the clean-up finished, Tooru primly sits back down in his desk chair, reaching to rearrange the cup holding his pens that had toppled over during the multiple occasions he had rammed his head against the drawers. His cheeks are burning and he can’t quite seem to make himself look up. What now? Was this going to be a one-time thing? Does he pretend that this didn’t happen? Should he have Kindaichi send Iwaizumi a fruit basket?

“After work,” Iwaizumi says from the door, and Tooru glances up, his knees bouncing anxiously. Iwaizumi’s back to glowering, but this time his face is flushed in a way it hadn’t been, not once the entire time they had spent together. He speaks to a point somewhere over Tooru’s shoulder, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be doing anything else. “There’s…there’s this new ramen shop by the station. I might go. For dinner, I mean. If you wanted to come too, then…uh. Then I guess that’d be fine.”

Tooru freezes, something akin to hope arresting his heartbeat and then starting it back up double-time.  “…so…like…a date?” he asks slowly, trying not to look like the mere idea has him squirming with delight. He doesn’t think he does a very good job, because Iwaizumi’s cheeks redden as he huffs.

“Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of jerking off guys I don’t have the intention of seeing again.”

Tooru bites his lip. “Why?” _Why’d you decide to give me a chance?_ he doesn’t say, but Iwaizumi seems to understand. The glower smooths out from his face, and one corner of his mouth tilts up into a boyish grin.

“It’s not every day that I give someone the warm fuzzies.”

Tooru gapes at him, cheeks flaming.

Iwaizumi waves. “See you at lunch, Oikawa.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday morning Tooru barely makes it to work on time—he had to stop by the bakery across the street to pick up brownies for both of his _henchmen_ , even though the two traitors sure as hell don’t deserve them. When he plops them wordlessly on their desks with a warning death glare, they wink knowingly at him, hooting and miming crude hand gestures as he all but waltzes through the cubicles towards the elevator.

He supposes he could be forgiving, just this once. Especially since last night had been the best first date he’s ever been on. Especially since they had ridden the train together, all the way back to Tooru's apartment. Especially since Iwaizumi hadn’t left until the early morning, and even then it had been a terror to separate them, spending most of the sunrise kissing against the door.

Especially since he knows that he can look forward to more perfect dates in the days to come. 

Tooru adjusts his collar so that the fresh row of hickies from last night isn’t visible, and he presses the button for the forty-third floor.

 

**Author's Note:**

> yoooo 2nd time writing legit porn and it was no less awkward rip me. lol be honest w me how obvious was it that I tried very hard not to have to use the word “cock” I think I used it like twice in a sex scene that’s more than 2,000 words of grossness i totally respect yall who write filth on a regular basis its hard (ha ha). I don’t know how to embed gifs on here so just know that if I could I would be inserting that gif of daniel radcliffe saying “I tried and therefore no one can criticize me”. we will now resume regularly scheduled wholesome programming, but i wanted to try something other than my usual t-for-teen kiss at the end. and boy did i. 
> 
> this piece of work was sitting in my documents untouched for literally 6 mo it was time to just throw it into the abyss of the internet and leave it be. i am now free. 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


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